


pyrite heart

by nanodarlings (incendiarism)



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Lee Jeno-centric, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Perfectionism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:20:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23470828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incendiarism/pseuds/nanodarlings
Summary: Jeno, underneath his easy going nature, refuses to be left behind. Jeno refuses to let all of the faith people have placed in him over the years rot away with nothing else to show. No matter the cost.So he puts on the best show he can, fool’s gold burning under piercing spotlights.And he tries again.
Relationships: Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Lee Jeno, Lee Jeno & Na Jaemin
Comments: 29
Kudos: 112
Collections: OBSCURE SORROWS FIC FEST





	pyrite heart

**Author's Note:**

> my entry for obscure sorrows fest! thank you so much to the mods for organizing this <3 hopefully i didn't stray too far from my words since i absolutely adore the concept of this fest ;; my words were: 
> 
> Jouska  
> n. a hypothetical conversation that you compulsively play out in your head—a crisp analysis, a cathartic dialogue, a devastating comeback—which serves as a kind of psychological batting cage where you can connect more deeply with people than in the small ball of everyday life, which is a frustratingly cautious game of change-up pitches, sacrifice bunts, and intentional walks.
> 
> Fata Organa  
> n. a flash of real emotion glimpsed in someone sitting across the room, idly locked in the middle of some group conversation, their eyes glinting with vulnerability or quiet anticipation or cosmic boredom—as if you could see backstage through a gap in the curtains, watching stagehands holding their ropes at the ready, actors in costume mouthing their lines, fragments of bizarre sets waiting for some other production.
> 
> thank you for reading!

"The most beautiful part of your body is where it’s headed. & remember, loneliness is still time spent with the world. Here’s the room with everyone in it. Your dead friends passing through you like wind through a wind chime. Here’s a desk with the gimp leg & a brick to make it last. Yes, here’s a room so warm & blood-close, I swear, you will wake—& mistake these walls for skin."

\- Someday I’ll Love Ocean Vuong, 30-43, Ocean Vuong

Being an idol is a sort of pipe-dream turned reality.

It’s the sort of dream that gets you a chuckle and a pat on the head when you tell your teachers in elementary school, the sort of career that doesn’t seem _real_ until you’re already in way over your head. The sort of thing that feels almost as if any second now you’re gonna blink and everything will melt away—leaving behind nothing but ugly, harsh truth.

But it’s real. And it’s amazing, everything Jeno dreamed of—until it’s not.

Maybe it’s just the sort of peeling sensation that Jeno will never get used to. The unshakeable feeling of always being a beat or two behind the rest of the group that clings to all of his idolisms.

At the end of the day, it turns into this:

Raking through all of the interviews and variety shows and livestreams that they’d had that day, working his way through each and every sentence and tearing them apart word by word. It’s a dissection; it’s a step up to play in a mental batting cage, and he finds himself pressing rewind over and over again as he tries to retcon whatever he’d said that day. 

A smarter remark here; a wittier comment there. Actually chiming in when the opportunity presents itself instead of simply standing there and smiling like an idiot. Shake out the static that seems to worm its way into his head whenever he’s put in front of a camera, focus on what’s in front of him, learn to be a better entertainer.

Rid himself of the no jam title once and for all. Prove that there’s worth to him as an idol besides good looks and a penchant for being in the right place at the right time.

Jeno fabricates his own perfect reality in his head over and over again, telling himself that if he focuses enough, it’ll manage to translate to real life.

After all, practice makes perfect, right?

Right.

Here’s the thing: Jeno’s landed himself a label. Jeno’s managed to tie himself to constantly being associated with _unfunny,_ and it’s the sort of thing that constantly knocks him off balance. The sort of thing that drags him slowly, but surely, all the way down to rock bottom, with an ocean of netizens crashing over his head.

It starts innocently enough, some off-hand remark by another member, an inside joke, no harm intended. But the tricky thing with words is that they have a tendency to domino effect, one thing leading to another until you’re trapped behind layers and layers of developed association.

Labels carry all sorts of hidden conditions; labels are boxes with lids that slam shut.

You see, when the first thing that people put to your name is a measurement of worth based on something as simple as your sense of humor, when you find yourself caught in that endlessly looping feedback chain, things never turn out too pretty.

And pretty means everything in this world.

So Jeno tries, trembling voice and mundane mannerisms still finding their footing in the awkward transition from _Lee Jeno: Everyday Boy_ to _Lee Jeno: Polished and Professional Idol_.Jeno pours his heart out, splaying out over the sweat slicked wood of the practice studios and the cluttered confines of the recording rooms.

And Jeno isn’t dumb, or at least not in the way everyone seems to think that he is. Jeno knows that to be an idol, you have to slough off every part of yourself that isn’t perfect, every part that could be deemed flawed, all for the public’s amusement.

Jeno knows, and he accepts.

After all, this is the life he chose years and years ago—pen naively scratching out his shaky signature across the dotted lines and clammy hands shaking with the snake-eyed businessman.

In a brutal industry like this, some things are just unavoidable.

— 

Here’s the thing about perfectionism: it’s an awfully skilled liar.

It’s nothing short of masterful in how it manages to blindside you to your achievements, in how it forces your vision to narrow until all you can see is _fault._ Perfectionism is a cage; perfectionism is a rabbit hole to fall into and never be able to escape.

Perfectionism is toxic.

And yet, it’s Jeno’s saving grace.

It’s muscle memory: long hours in practice rooms, late nights in reevaluation, monotonous waiting in recording studios. It’s an easy mode to slip into, mechanical and detailed and mindless. A rigid mould to live life by—all you have to do is follow the steps and pray that you don’t fuck up along the line.

Work yourself into the grave, push and push until there’s nothing left for you to give. Perfectionism can be anything you want it to be if you try hard enough: painkiller, mindnumber, mass murderer. Pick your poison—there is no antidote.

Wanna know a secret?

Jeno, underneath his easy going nature, refuses to be left behind. Jeno refuses to let all of the faith people have placed in him over the years rot away with nothing else to show. No matter the cost.

So he puts on the best show he can, fool’s gold burning under piercing spotlights.

And he tries again.

— 

The atmosphere in the recording studio is—for lack of a better term— _weird._ Or at least, for Jeno something’s just off, something he can’t quite place. Nothing concrete, nothing specific, but more of an underlying instability. Fault lines that don’t mean anything until it’s too late.

It’s Mark’s last session recording as a member of Dream, and the rest of them have a collective understanding to make it seamless, end everything off on a high note.

(Which is a nice thought of course, but reality never quite seems to line up with what’s ideal now, does it?)

The song’s fine. “A crowd pleaser,” one of the producers had called it, “nothing too experimental, but nice to listen to nonetheless. A good send-off.” Even the line distribution is as fair as it’ll get with SM as their company, with a decent mix of parts for each member.

And everyone’s in high spirits despite the thought of Mark leaving—having come to the agreement earlier to not make his last time feel too bitter. Donghyuck makes a few lighthearted jokes; Chenle pokes fun at the way Mark raps. It’s going well.

It’s going well, except Jeno can’t seem to nail his part for the life of him, no matter how goddamn hard he tries, like the strange feeling from earlier is coming back to haunt him. Like the words just don’t flow properly, like they keep on getting caught between his teeth and lodged in his throat. Like each syllable doesn’t fit in his mouth properly. 

Take thirteen: 

Failure.

Jeno loses rhythm on his second word and ends up two beats behind tempo, making the rest of his line a hapless scramble to try and get on track again. The director finally cuts him off with a smile that’s worn, but not unkind, telling him that maybe they should move on to someone else and that Jeno could give it another shot after that.

“Of course, sir,” Jeno replies, voice soft and head ducked in quiet defeat, before leaving the room and making his way to the unoccupied chair.

Donghyuck’s the next one up in the studio. Jaemin shoots him a look as he sits down, but Jeno waves it off—which apparently is convincing enough to satisfy Jaemin, who goes back to focusing on Jisung.

Jeno fiddles absentmindedly with a loose thread on the chair he’s sitting on, twining the string back and forth between his fingers as he watches Donghyuck record. He’s doing a good job, words clearly pronounced, perfectly in tune, and even hitting the high note he’d been stressing over earlier in the groupchat his first time around. Posture is easy, relaxed but still focused.

Jeno shrinks into himself a bit more, feeling like he pales in comparison.

As Jeno looks on in his vague direction, Donghyuck’s eyes meet his from behind the glossy sheen of the glass pane separating them.

It’s a moment like built up static. Electricity, battery acid. Donghyuck’s sharp gaze, hard set mouth. Fierce determination and relentless ambition set irreversibly into his face.

And it’s always a mesmerizing thing to watch people do what they’re passionate about, a bit like something that Jeno’s old dance teacher at school had told him one day when he’d been caught staying after to polish the choreo they’d learned in class.

“You can always tell, you know,” he’d remarked, breaking the silence as he helped Jeno lock the place down.

“Tell what?”

“Whether or not someone’s really got their heart in it. You can always tell. They’ve always got that certain aura around them, that sort of steely drive— ” he’d paused then, looked Jeno up and down like he was some sort of lab rat, and then continued— “And I hope you’re one of them. Keep at it, Lee. Don’t disappoint me.”

He’d eventually been forced to drop out of school after balancing it with idol life got too hectic, but Jeno thinks that if Mr. Choi could see Donghyuck now, he’d say the same thing. Say that Donghyuck has that sort of drive, that burning desire to _succeed._

And Jeno can’t help but to agree.

Donghyuck finishes with four takes total. And Jeno’s back up to bat.

—

You meet a lot of people in this business. People who are amazing, people who are shitty beyond belief, people who never make it past the coworker phase.

And then there’s Na Jaemin.

Caffeine loving, soft hearted Jaemin. Perfect, absolutely adored Jaemin. Almost exactly-like-Jeno Jaemin—but also not quite. 

There’s all of the surface level similarities that they parade for the fans to fawn over of course—things like how they’re the same age, joined the same company on the same day, sat next to each other at their entrance ceremony. Classmates in school, soulmates attached at the hip, two peas in a pod.

And all of that’s true; all of that’s fine. Jaemin’s the closest thing to a best friend he’s ever had—the industry is full of lies and half truths, but this isn’t one of them. 

But where their personalities splinter off is this: Jaemin’s managed to perfect the idol persona, managed to figure out exactly what makes the public tick and take full advantage of it.

Jaemin is king of the masquerade ball—glorious and sharp and micromanaged to perfection. Crystal chandeliers and the good china that your mother only pulls out when guests are over.

He’s easy to admire, quick to please: magnetic and custom tailored to satisfy the whims of the fans. Charming smiles thrown out casually at fansigns; sickeningly sweet words slipping out easily during variety shows. 

Jeno cringes along with the rest of the Dreamies when he does it, making faces of exaggerated disgust and cries of protest, but really, there never fails to be that restless _doubt_ plaguing the back of his mind.

If Jaemin is the king, if Jaemin is the grand puppetmaster pulling at the strings, Jeno feels a lot more like the dancer trapped in the music box.

Confined between a set of walls, taken out only for mindless entertainment. Wind him up—watch him spin round and round in circles, running himself ragged on loop. Shut the lid again.

And eventually, you learn to grow up. Eventually, you come to abandon all of your childish interests. Jam the box into the dusty attic, shelved between all of the other piles of forgotten odd knick-knacks and bits-and-bobs that eventually— _inevitably_ —disintegrate with time.

Jaemin’s out for blood, and Jeno’s being left behind.

And maybe it wouldn’t be too hard to resent Jaemin for his act: call him fake, plastic. Factory made and two-faced. Except Jeno gets it; Jeno knows that at the end of the day Jaemin’s just trying to make it like the rest of them. Extend their invisible expiration date just a bit longer, keep the public’s interest until they move on to the next shiniest thing.

It’s not like he isn’t the same. Not like he wouldn’t take the chance if he got it, not like he isn’t just another product of a brutal industry, bent on staying alive no matter the costs.

—

The thing about Donghyuck and being in both 127 and Dream is that he’s always split between two different places, flying back and forth all over the world. So to find him in the Dream dorms when 127 is in the middle of promotions is rare, and to have him willingly take Jeno out is even rarer. And Jeno tries to protest when Donghyuck brings it up, but gets waved off easily.

They go out to one of the Chinese noodle places that all of them have been fond of since their trainee days: one of those hole in the wall places that’s cramped and messy, but horribly charming in its own merit. Dim and unreliable lights flickering over small benches, chipped glasses and bowls next to big containers filled with chopsticks.

It’s a particularly nice place to visit with how well the staff know them at this point and how easy it is to hide in one of the nice, dark booths and pretend that they’re not idols but rather everyday teenagers. An escape point. Simple, familiar.

And going there never fails to strike Jeno with a bout of nostalgia, memories tucked into every corner of the shop—Mark running into the waiter and making him drop a plate full of their food (Jeno had never seen someone apologize that much before), or Jaemin dumping cilantro into his bowl and the rest of them staring on in horror.

It’s a warm feeling, fuzzy and comfortable, like the heated blanket Jaemin has at the dorms, like if the world was ending right then and there, everything would still be ok as long as Mrs. Zhang was there to take their orders and slip them extra fortune cookies when they weren’t paying attention.

Something like watching an old movie, that sort of black and white comfort.

They’re tucked into their usual corner of the joint, bowls full of steaming hot noodles and broth in front of them, and for a while it’s nice, cheerful. Donghyuck regals him with tales of America and Jeno nods along happily while he eats.

And oh, how he’s missed this.

Donghyuck’s easy company, how there’s no pressure to be more than he is. No feeling of _better_ always being around the corner, just barely unattainable. No competition, no idol-hood to speak of, just the two of them enjoying their food.

It’s not until both of them are nearing the bottom of their bowls that Donghyuck brings it up.

“Jeno, are you… are you alright?” He peers at Jeno with unmasked concern, and Jeno sinks a little in his chair.

Fool’s gold. Heart pumping it all through his veins.

_Don’t slip up._

“I’m fine,” he says, trying to pour as much sincerity into his voice as possible. “Just—” Jeno waves his hands around, a vague motion whose meaning even he isn’t quite sure about— “You know?”

Donghyuck stares at him for a while, thinking, before sighing. “No, Jeno, I don’t know. That’s kind of the point here.” He pauses, seeming to mull over his next words, before saying, “I know that I’m not around as much as the other Dreamies; I know that I probably have no right to be saying this. But I hear about things, Jeno. Something’s not quite right; something’s going on with you.”

Jeno freezes, growing far more interested in his food than he was before. “I, I don’t know what you mean? Did Jaemin put you up to this?” he tries, but his voice sounds off even to his own ears.

Donghyuck stops, fixes him with a look that seems to last for ages before slumping back in his seat. “I don’t wanna press too much, but you can, like, talk to me if you need to, yeah?”

Jeno looks down, pokes at a stray noodle stuck on the edge of his bowl with his chopsticks. Breathes, a soft inhale and exhale. “Yeah. Yeah, I know, Duckie. It’s just that—” Jeno trails off.

“Just that?”

“Just that, ugh—” Jeno wrinkles his nose a bit, tries to slap some sense back into himself— “Nothing. It’s nothing, really, don’t worry about it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mmhm. Positive.”

Donghyuck looks hesitant as Jeno braces himself for any incoming barrage of further interrogation, but he finally seems to drop it and instead opts to flag down a waiter for the bill.

“I’ll let you off this time, Lee, but I’m paying. No arguments.”

And, well, Jeno lets him. It’s easier than fighting it.

—

Variety shows, in Jeno’s very humble opinion, can go to hell.

What’s the easiest way to explain it?

It’s like a continuous stumbling, a never ending series of challenge after challenge. It’s an ever shifting maze, changing after every new speaker.

Like when they’re watching a movie and Jeno has to go refill the popcorn bowl halfway through because certain people (Jisung) had to finish it all before the main characters had even met. And when he comes back, everything is just a tiny bit off, details flying over his head and character developments that don’t quite click. Like he’s being dragged along, and he can mostly piece together the plot but there’s always that hole, no matter how much Jaemin tries to explain the plot to him.

That sort of feeling which sets in when he blanks out the moment the mic gets to him and has to get his ass saved by someone else chiming in—or, worse, gets made the butt of some supposedly light-hearted teasing. When he tells a joke that falls particularly flat and winces— _ah, that’s definitely getting clipped for Twitter._

And Jeno, Jeno doesn’t want to sound privileged. Because sometimes, when he’s in one of those moods where nothing feels right, it seems like such a _trivial_ thing to lose sleep over. Tiny and inconsequential.

There are people who would sell a lung to be in the position Jeno is in after all, people who look at him and all that he’s achieved at his young age and tell him that he must’ve been blessed at birth, that fortune smiles kindly upon him.

But it all circles back to this industry, where even the smallest of mistakes can snowball into a slow demise.

So, it manages to be both meaningless and life-shattering at the same time. Some weird game of tug and war, some back and forth between feeling ridiculous for worrying about such a thing and feeling like everything is crashing down around him.

Yeah.

Checkmate.

—

Two am. Practice room. Moving reflection, pounding bass, windowless walls— 

Jeno breathes. This is familiar territory.

This is comfortable; this is something that he can hash out with relatively little stress. Mistakes easily spotted in the sweeping expanse of mirrors lining the walls; mistakes easily _corrected_ with a change in arm placement here or a few extra runs.

It’s a clear-cut path, refreshingly straightforward. No words of _just, I guess, change the way you speak or something_ or _I don’t know how else to put it, you really just have to be better_. No talking. No constantly thinking about what to say, about how to put on the best show.

This is simple. This is something to throw yourself into; this is something to get lost in.

This is an addiction.

The clock keeps time over the loop—run the dance. Stop, fix yourself and everything you got wrong. Rewind the music, try again. Rinse and repeat.

Easy.

Three am. He’s got a wicked headache that’s starting to really set in, a mad throbbing around his temples that isn’t helped by the blaring speakers and fluorescent lighting.

This is his way of providing compensation for all of his other faults.

If you can’t find a way to get rid of your weaknesses, cover them up. Find something that you _are_ good at, and find a way to perfect it.

If your best isn’t good enough, make your best even better.

Press play. Run, run, run— 

“Jeno, you’re aware that it’s, like, ass o’clock in the morning, right?”

Stop.

Donghyuck stands at the door with his arms crossed, a frown working its way across his features from where his facemask is pulled down. He looks tired, worn out—eyes half-shut and messy hair peeking out from underneath his beanie—but still effortlessly attractive, still boyishly good-looking.

“Yeah, I know, I just—I just wanted to run through this one section a few more times.”

Donghyuck raises an eyebrow. “A few?”

A pause.

“Okay, maybe more than a few.”

Donghyuck sighs, walks over to Jeno and pulls him to sit down on the tattered couch in the corner of the room.

“You can’t keep doing this, you know. Shit’s gonna catch up to you eventually.”

Jeno stills from where he’s fidgeting, feigns ignorance. “What do you mean?’

“Jeno. Don’t play dumb, I know that you come home late every night.”

Jeno remains silent. Picks at a hangnail. _Have his nails always been this chewed down?_

“And I get it,” Donghyuck continues softly, voice gentle and clear. “You want to improve. But please Jeno, take care of yourself a bit more?”

There’s this burning feeling threatening to turn into an avalanche, something hot and bitter and awful. Not jealousy, not quite. More just this desperation, this displaced feeling. This horrible, illogical bitterness when faced with all that Donghyuck has to his name, even though he’s never done anything wrong.

This feeling that Donghyuck is leagues above him. Talented at everything, from dancing to singing to even having dabbled in rapping—and above all, _funny._

Jeno’s gone down the rabbit-holes, sifted through the internet to find all the comments about _Haechan_ —variety master, Full Sun, moodmaker of the group—and slapped them side by side with his own no jam comments. Makes shitty comparisons between them, digs himself deeper into his own grave.

It doesn’t make sense; Jeno knows. It’s horribly petty, childish and petulant— 

Donghyuck is a good person. Donghyuck works hard to be where he is, deserves every ounce of praise that he receives and maybe even more.

Jeno doesn’t fault him for anything; he really doesn’t. More, the industry—more, himself.

So he shoves down the rising bile, boxes it all up for another day. Follows Donghyuck back to the dorms dutifully like a lost dog being brought home and makes room for him to crawl beside Jeno in bed.

It’s better this way. He’ll get over it, or push it down far enough to feel like he’s gotten over it.

And it’ll all work out in the end.

**Author's Note:**

> and there's that! a...vent fic of sorts? also unbetaed ahhh...please tell me if you spot any errors/typos. and once more, thank you for reading! i'd love to hear any thoughts you have in the comments or on twitter and curious cat! 
> 
> twt: [@nanodarlings](https://twitter.com/nanodarlings)  
> cc: [aphelions](https://curiouscat.me/aphelions)  
> 
> 
> [additional thoughts](https://hereinevitably.dreamwidth.org/5114.html)


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